Alternating

There's a pill for your aches,
And a cream for your joints.
They say there's meds for your head,
But I don't really see the point.

They say prayers help the spirit,
And the sun heals your soul.
I think I need a exorcism,
Or a simple rowan pole.

Books can be a sweet escape,
And cinema numbs the brain.
But Prometheus was aware
There was no escaping pain.

Mirrors reflect another dimension.
Another timeline of abhorrent pretension.
Somedays I think that I'm the other.
Unruly, deceitful, a dark type of smother.

As the misty cold skies rain
On this dismal Sunday afternoon,
I wonder if there's a cure for me,
Or if I'll be regretfully immune?